


Flashbacks and variables

by Broedmoeder



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Dad!Booker, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, but it's not that bad, some violence, spoilers for anyone who hasn't played the game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 08:27:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9648050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Broedmoeder/pseuds/Broedmoeder
Summary: Just Booker being Booker. But he also has to care for a small human.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title sucks because I suck at coming up with titles and it's been beta'd by me, because my editor is a poopyhead. I love dad!booker and I hope this isn't too crappy. So. Enjoy.

Booker stares at the pile of paperwork in front of him and he wonders if he shouldn't accidentally let a lit cigarette fall on it so it goes up in flames. But that would mean no work, and no work means no money, which means no food for little Anna. He only does this for her, he doesn't care if he starves to death, or withers away in a ditch, as long as Anna is safe and cared for. Speaking of…

She's sitting on the floor not far from him, babbling to herself and playing with a wooden horse toy. She's only four years old and she can't speak much, but Booker knows she's smart as hell. Sometimes she looks up at him with those bright eyes of her and he knows that she's aware of what is going on. Maybe he is fooling himself though, thinks that his daughter is smarter than she is because after all, don't all parents think the world of their kids? 

Anna is different, however. She must be. Why else does he need to keep her so close she might as well suffocate? He barely lets her out of his sight, but he blames that on the nightmares he has. Nightmares where she's taken away from him and there's nothing he can do but scream her name, powerless in his efforts to get her back. Nightmares where she is older, locked up by an old man with white hair and a white beard, a metallic bird that circles around the tower she's locked up in. Nightmares that he wakes up from drenched in cold sweat, with his nose bleeding. He doesn't know what they mean, if they mean anything at all. He's terrified of losing her, of course he is, but he doesn't know why. Maybe because the nightmares hint at something more, an alternate reality where it feels so real and he wakes up feeling the loss of his daughter and he has to step into her room, place his large hand on her head to make sure she's there. She always is. And then he runs his fingers through her soft, brown locks and cries until he can't breathe anymore. 

With a sigh he forces himself on the papers, work through them so he can lock up, go home and make them some dinner. Home is right above his office and he's glad they don't have to trudge through the cold air outside, Anna's sudden delighted gasps telling him that it's snowing. He turns to look at her, a smile playing on his lips as she standing on her tiptoes to look through the blinds, her nose pressed up against the window. He rolls his chair over to where she's standing, lifting her up so she can sit on his lip, pulling up the blinds with the string that hangs to the side. Anna squirms and stands up on his legs, and he holds her waist so she doesn't tumble and fall down in her excitement. 

“If it's still snowing tomorrow we could go to the park.” he mumbles, Anna whipping her head around at his words, her eyes lighting up. 

“Really?!” he nods at her words, and she twists her body to clasp her small arms around his neck. Booker pulls her close to him and stands up. Paperwork be damned. He fishes a set of keys from his desk drawer and moves over to lock up the place, lowering the blinds again and steps through the door that says ‘Private’.

 

It's snowing, Booker confirms when he stares out the window of Anna's room. She's still sleeping and he doesn't have the heart to wake her up when she looks so peaceful. A vast amount of white powder has amassed over the night and he sighs once, turning away from the window. He moves out of her room to start on breakfast.

There's the smell of toast, eggs and coffee, Anna is still sleeping. Booker pushes away from the counter to step into her room again, sinking down on the bed next to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. 

“Angel, wake up. It's time for breakfast.” he intentionally keeps his voice soft and gentle. Anna can be grumpy when she's woken up before she's ready. She stirs and her eyes slowly open, glaring at him. Ah. One of those days.

“C’mon, you need some food before you exhaust yourself in the park.” that piques her interest and the glare fades away. He grins and pats her shoulder.

“Park?” she rubs the sleep from her eyes, turning on her back. 

“Yes, the park. Unless you don't wanna go anymore.” he stands up, his bones cracking and he frowns. When did he get so old? A hand shoots up and clasps around his pinky finger. 

“No!” Anna is awake now, sitting up and shaking her head frantically.

“There's my girl.” Booker mutters, reaching down to place a kiss on top of Anna's head and he takes one large step to retrieve her bathrobe. He steps back. holding it open for her and she slides into it, padding away from him and towards the kitchen. 

One day she's going to wake up and be old enough to put on her own bathrobe, and she'll walk to the kitchen and he won't stand there watching her. One day she's going to be old enough that she doesn't cling to him anymore, she won't sit on his lap and babble about whatever her fantasies are made of. He's going to miss it. He tries to find a silver lining, thinking that he can perhaps find it in the fact she's going to grow up and they can have actual conversations together. He hopes that when the time comes, she can forgive him for keeping her cooped up, close to him. Especially when she grows up and sees how ugly the world is. 

She’s already nibbling on some toast by the time he comes into the kitchen, pours himself some coffee, orange juice for Anna and he sits down with both drinks. He grabs some toast and spreads butter over it, then some jelly and cuts it into little pieces, switching his plate with Anna's. They continue to eat in silence and he relaxes back into his seat. Anna is still half asleep and he's never liked talking in the morning, so it works out for both of them. 

She's so precious to him, and he wonders if she'll ever know just how much he loves her. That he will do anything to keep her safe, anything at all. He will work himself down to skin and bones if it means that she has clothes and a roof over her back, food to eat and toys to play with. It's all that matters.

“Done!” Anna loudly exclaims, jumping off from the chair and padding back towards her room. 

“Clean..” he sighs as she's already walking away, standing up and pinching the bridge of his nose. “.. up your dishes.” he mutters to empty air. So he picks them up himself, setting plates and cups down into the sink and running the cold water for a moment. He closes the tap and takes a few steps and knocks on Anna's door.

“Need some help getting dressed?” he asks her. It wouldn't be the first time that she's tangled up in her dress and walks against a wall or two. For a kid that bright it still shows how young she really is. 

“No!” she yells back and he can tell from her tone that she is, in fact, in need of some help, but he's going to wait it out.

“Mhm.” he leans against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest as his head dips back against the wall. One, two, three, four, five, si-

“Daddy?” her small voice comes from the other end of the door and he grins.

“Yes, angel?” he pushes himself from the wall.

“Help me?” Booker snorts and opens the door, and whatever he expected, he doesn't expect to find his little girl with one sock over her arm, one arm through a skirt while the rest hangs over her shoulder. 

“I clearly remember you telling me you’re a big girl now and that you don't need my help. When was that, last week?” there's a gentle smile on his face as he plucks the sock from her arm and pulls the skirt off, rearranging them so they fit where they belong. He helps her into a blouse, finishing off her outfit with a blue ribbon around the collar of her shirt. Blue ribbons are probably her favorite thing in the world, she wants them on her clothes, in her hair, even scattered through her room. 

She sticks her tongue out at his words in lieu of an actual response and Booker quirks his brow. Stands up to get her hairbrush from the dresser and sits down on her bed, his poor knees simply can't take all that squatting down, he's not twenty anymore. Anna hobbles towards him and stands between his legs as he brings a hand up to carefully brush her hair. He never thought he would be the one to sit here, brushing his daughter's hair. He had always thought - hoped - it would be her mother but life doesn't always turn out the way you want it to. 

“Daddy?” her voice breaks him from his thoughts and he hums in response. “Where's mommy?” Booker halts in his movements, sitting there frozen. Sometimes it's like she reads his mind and it's never any less startling. 

“Not here.” he sighs, continuing to brush her hair. He doesn't want to think about it, he can't explain it to her. Not yet. 

“Oh.” is the response he gets and a pang of guilt stabs him through the heart. He pulls Anna into his lap, placing a kiss against her temple and starts back up with brushing her hair. 

“But she's watching over you, and she loves you. Just as much as I love you.” he's not sure of his words but what else can he say? No, there's no way she wouldn't love Anna. That's preposterous and impossible and frankly, he doesn't want to linger on the what ifs. So when he's done he sets Anna down on the ground and helps her into her shoes, nudging her towards the stairs as he takes their coats from the hook. He watches her carefully descend down the stairs and follows closely behind her. 

 

They're finally outside after Anna insisting that she's able to put on her own coat and getting tangled in the sleeves, refusing help and, while Booker isn't proud of it, lied about the park closing before they got there. Now he's hoisted her up his shoulders because she loves that, and he's walking towards the park. It's not all that far, but it still gives him time to think and brood, ignoring the looks they get. Booker's aware of the scars on his face, his brown hair that is starting to grey just a little, that his broad shoulders are intimidating at best. But he likes that people avoid him, in a way. At least they'll think twice about coming close to Anna while he's around. What he doesn't realize, however, is that the women aren't looking at him in fear, but rather admiration and want, need, perhaps. He hasn't looked at women since Anna's mother, and he doesn't think he ever will again.

Booker lifts Anna from his shoulders once they arrive in the park, daring to let her run wild, for now. 

“Go on, have fun angel. I'm right here if you need me.” he nudges her softly, and she glances back at him with a wide smile before darting off, jumping into a big pile of fresh snow. He lingers around her, not feeling comfortable with simply sitting on a bench and waiting for her to be done playing. He gives her space, though, knowing that she needs it, perhaps more than either of them realize. 

Booker pulls out a cigarette and lights it, his senses on sharp as he carefully surveys they park, but there's no one there other than some nanny's with a handful of kids, and he doubts any of them have the craftiness or the guts to hurt Anna. He turns his eyes back on her, his expression softening now she's found someone to play with, watching the two girls run around in the snow and throw snowballs at each other.

What happens next goes almost too fast for him to interfere. Almost. He's by Anna's side in a second, cradling the girl in his arms after she's pushed against a set of iron monkey bars, tears spilling from her eyes. Booker stands up with Anna in his arms, quickly checking her for injuries. “It's okay angel, daddy's here. Shh.. You're okay, it's alright.” he shushes her, rocking her in his arms. She's still crying, and Booker reaches out to grab the boy that pushed her by the scruff of his neck before he can run off.

“Why'd you push her?” there's no gentle tone to his voice now, eyes narrowed in an angry glare and the boy gulps, trembling as he shrugs his shoulders. “Well?” Booker shakes the boy harshly, and a woman intervenes by snatching the boy from Booker's grip, placing her hands on the boy's shoulders. 

“No need to be so rough, sir.” he can tell she's not pleased, but neither is he. 

“Little punk pushed my girl, so you don't get to tell me what to do, miss.” he stands at his full length now as he looms over the woman, turning his glare so it's directed at her. He places a hand on Anna's back, rubbing it in a soothing manner. “Perhaps he'll behave better with some tough love.” he can't keep the growl out of his voice, stepping closer to the woman and he knows full and well how intimidating it makes him seem. Which is exactly what he's going for. 

“I-” the woman halts, taking a step back. “I'll see to it that he behaves in the future.” and with that she takes the boy and leaves. 

Booker glares at her retreating back, hoisting Anna up a little higher to look at her. “Does it hurt?” he mutters, pressing his nose into her hair. She nods, still crying albeit silently this time. “Good thing I know how to make the pain go away.” he smiles softly at her, the hand that's on her back moving to brush some hair behind her ear. And no, he's not going to give her a glass of whisky, (not until she's thirty, at least) and he thinks that he can make her far happier with a hot dog. Never mind the fact they had breakfast not an hour ago, but she's hurt and it's just this one time.

 

Booker keeps her in his arms as she's gingerly eating from her hot dog. The tears have stopped but it seems she's still in pain and Booker doesn't know how to soothe it. He doesn't know a lot of things. He mumbles soothing words into her ear as he walks them home, with Anna eating and resting against him. There's a small bump on her head where she hit the monkey bars and he silently curses at himself for not preventing it. Maybe there's nothing he could've done, but he feels guilty and seeing Anna's tear streaked face doesn't make it any better. 

 

Booker sets Anna down on the couch in his office once they're inside, heading upstairs and returns not much later with a blanket and an ice pack. He wraps the blanket around her, sitting down on the couch next to her and presses the ice pack against the side of her head. She whines at the cold and he rubs her back. 

“I know angel, I know. But it's gonna help, alright? It'll ease the pain, I promise.” he stares at the papers on his desk and he sighs, he really has to finish it. But Anna needs him so he sees only one solution. He picks her up, moves over to sit at his desk and cradles his daughter close. “Daddy has some work to do, but I'm here if you need anything.” she makes a small noise at his words, shifting the ice pack so it presses against his chest, her head pressing up against the ice pack. He winces at the cold as he takes a shuddering breath, forcing his attention to his work. A little cold never hurt no one.

 

Anna has long fallen asleep on his lap and Booker glances over the last page in front of him, scribbling down some notes and stuffs the papers away. Done. Glancing at the small clock on his desk he figures he should close up, make some lunch for them and put Anna to bed afterwards when the bell above the door rings as it swings open.

“Mister DeWitt?” he looks up at the tentative voice coming from a woman in the doorway, and she's bringing in the cold so he nods. The woman steps inside and closes the door, her heels clicking against the wooden floorboards before sitting herself down in a chair in front of his desk. “Oh, she's just precious. Your daughter?” there's a faint smile on the woman's face as she looks at Anna's sleeping form. 

“That she is.” he mutters, wrapping a protective arm around the girl. His other hand automatically reaches for his notebook that he flips open, picking up a pen as he glances up at the woman. “What can I do for you?” he then asks her, the pen twirling between his fingers. 

“I have a rather unusual request. I- I'm not sure if you're the man I'm looking for but there's.. There's rumours, mister DeWitt. Rumours that you take care of business, that you- you keep the streets clean, so to say.” she's fidgeting and it's easy to tell she's uneasy, on edge. So Booker simply nods, humming an affirmative as he keeps his gaze fixed on her.

She pauses, straightens out her long skirt and adjusts the handbag resting on her lap. She repeats the motions several times as she gathers her nerves. “Reverend Don. He's not what he seems and the police won't help me. I don't feel safe as long as he walks the streets, mister DeWitt. He comes to my house and stares at me through the windows. I-” her tone is panicked and she stops talking when Booker reaches out over the desk and places a hand on her shoulder. 

“It will cost more.” he rasps out as he retreats his hand, forcing the memories at bay. He can't get distracted when he has a client, especially not one as nervous as she is. She frantically nods her head, opening her bag and pulling out a purse. She pulls out some bills and hastily slaps them on the desk, and Booker tries not to gulp and widen his eyes when he sees it's a hundred dollars.

“A deposit, if you will. You'll have the rest of your money as soon as it's done.” she drops her purse back in her bag, standing up as she looks at him, worry crossing her eyes. 

“I'll get it done, miss..?” he doesn't get her name, because as soon as he tells her he will do it, she flees out of his office, leaving him bewildered and confused. But, money is money. He locks it up in a safe in his bottom desk drawer, locking that too.

Booker sinks back in his chair and curls his arms around Anna, allowing the memories to push past his barriers now that he's alone. Sort of.

_He walked into the chapel, Anna in his arms as always and they sat down, listening to the mass. He was nervous when it ended, leaving Anna on the bench when everyone left, and the Reverend and some cloaked men stepped forwards around a basin filled with water. Light crept through the high windows and it was easy to spot the dust the flew up and around. He was hesitant as he approached the men, rubbing the back of his neck.  
Maybe this would be good. He could be baptised, could be washed clean of his sins and he'd be forgiven for what he's done, what happened - what he did after the war, and he could move on with his life and become a respectable man. He needed that. Anna needed that. _

_“Do you wish to be guided towards the light? Do you wish to be set free of the burdens of life?” Booker had to admit that the man was convincing, gingerly nodding and stepping forwards until his toes touched the wooden exterior around the basin. He was feeling restless, though, and he wasn't sure what was causing it. ___

_“Let us release your demons, Booker DeWitt. Let us help you see.” Booker's head snapped up, how did they know his name? Something wasn't right. The restlessness he felt was explained now, fear pooling in his stomach and he saw the men in white robes advancing in on him. Within a split second he sprinted towards the bench he had left Anna on, scooping her in his arms and running out of the chapel, his heart beating in his ears._

Booker inhales sharply when the memory fades, bringing his hand to his face when he feels something wet. Pulling his hand back there’s blood and he realises that his nose is bleeding. Why? He's never given the memory much thought, simply pushed it back with all the other unpleasant things he doesn't want to think about anymore. 

With Anna in his arms he locks up his office, moving upstairs to place her on the couch and he makes them some lunch. Simple sandwiches but it's good enough, it's what they always have. He wakes Anna up and watches her eat, still a little sleepy but she doesn't seem to be in pain anymore. The ice pack is long forgotten on the floor but he doesn't make a move to pick it up, instead gently brushing a hand over her head, the bump has lessened and she barely reacts to the touch. 

“It doesn't hurt.” she mutters as if she hears what he's thinking. He nods, sinking down on the couch next to her, his gaze fixated on her as he eats. “Angel,” he starts, wiping crumbs off of his pants. “I have to go out tonight, for work. I promise I'll make it quick, but I'll call Daisy, okay?” he fidgets with the hem of his vest, he hates leaving her alone. But Daisy can be trusted, he met her through his work and while she has a rebellious spirit and she's fierce in her attitude, she's very sweet with Anna. 

“Okay.” she smiles up at him, jumping from the couch when she's done eating and goes to search for her wooden horse. Booker nods to himself and stands up to use the phone downstairs. 

 

It's two weeks later and Booker knows Reverend Don's schedule by heart now. Daisy is upstairs with Anna and he tucks his gun in the waistband of his pants, pulling on a jacket that will hide the gun from view. He swallows, licks his lips and heads out the door, closing and locking the door behind him. He's not nervous, he's done this before and he can easily turn off his mind to get it done, try not to let the guilt eat him, but sometimes it still weighs heavy on his mind. He lights a cigarette and ducks his head from the wind, white puffs of smoke leaving his lungs, travelling through his mouth and escaping in the cold air. He looks like any other man and woman out at this late hour, hurrying on home. 

Booker knocks loudly on the Reverend's front door, his fingers numb from the cold. They sting from the contact and rapid motions of knocking on wood and he rubs his hands together as he waits. The door opens quickly and it brings warmth that Booker suddenly craves. He glances down at the man's face, still rubbing his hands. 

“I need someone to talk to, Reverend. Can I come in?” the lie slips out easily and Don nods, stepping aside and letting Booker in. The door is closed behind them and Don looks at him. “DeWitt, was it? I remember you.” he says, leading them towards a study and flips on a light. 

“I'm sure you do.” Booker mutters under his breath, seizing up the room. Don leans against the desk in the far end of the room, the desk creaking under his weight. Booker doesn't think he's going to have much trouble fighting a fat man. 

“So, what can I do for you? What is so urgent that you felt compelled to come to me so late in the night?” Don folds his hands together in front of him. His tone is interested. Booker's mulls on it for a moment, but it doesn't matter what he's going to say because it will end up all the same either way. 

“I have some unfinished business.” Booker decides on, stepping closer and rubs his hands together one final time. Don doesn't get a chance to react when Booker has one hand around the man's collar, the other on his shoulder and he throws Don to the side, against a wall. He steps closer to see the confused look on Don's face, who is slumped against the wall, trying to stand up. Booker wastes no time and throws his through the room again, Don now lying face first in the middle of the room. 

The wooden floorboards creak as Booker rushes over, but he doesn’t expect Don to grab at his legs and now he's on the floor. Don stands up quickly during Booker's momentarily confusion and advances towards him, past him and towards the desk. Booker quickly gets to his feet, groaning as he still feels the imprint of his gun against his lower back, getting into a defensive position. But he straightens up and puffs out his shoulders a little when Don has a gun pointed at his face, advancing in on him.  
There's a tug on Booker's lips despite the situation he's in. Having a weapon pointed at him is a constant, the scenery is a variable. Whatever he gets himself into, there's always someone fighting back, wanting to kill him. But the methods differ. Sometimes it's a gun, sometimes it's a knife. But people trying to hurt him is something he can count on. Adrenaline courses through his veins and the cocking of the gun pulls him back to reality.

Booker ducks his head between his shoulders and charges as Don, wrapping his arms around the man's waist as he tackles him to the ground. The gun goes off and the bullet misses him by an inch, but there's a loud ringing in his ears and he grits his teeth. The smell of gunpowder is thick in the air and he straddles Don, one hand around the man's neck, his other making a fist and he punches Don in the face. There's a crunch and something wet on his knuckles but he pays it no mind, the adrenaline making it easy to punch the man beneath him again and again. There's hands gripping and clawing at him, and suddenly there's a gun pointed right between his eyes. His own gun. Booker wastes no time to twist the arm holding the gun away from him. It fires and searing hot pain takes over and makes him scream, his hand clutching at the back of his shoulder. Don takes the opportunity to push Booker off and punch him in the face, stomach, anywhere he can reach. But the gun falls from his grip during the struggle, and the gun is out of reach for the both of them.  
Booker breaths through the pain and manages to twist and push them over so he's on top again, one hand tightly clutching around Don's neck and he chokes the man. He's beating on his face even when the pain in his shoulder is getting so bad he wants to throw up. He doesn't stop until the man goes limp underneath him, and even then he keeps going to make sure he's dead.

Booker sits back and he's breathing heavily, his breath coming out in harsh pants. He takes in the sight underneath him, blood pooling around Don's face and the front of both their shirts are soaked. Booker's face doesn't look much better, though he's sure his sockets and bone structure is still intact, as where Don's is fucked to hell and back. He runs bloody hands through his hair and the pain in his shoulder flares up. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off he's exhausted, staring at the destruction he created. And for what? Because some asked him, because someone is paying him good money. Money that goes to his daughter. Money that keeps her alive. He sees Anna's face in front him, happy and smiling and her eyes that twinkle and the love that radiates from them. He's shaking and tears spill from his eyes. He doesn't want this, he doesn't want to be a murderer. At Wounded Knee he didn't have a choice, it was expected of him to be cold and unforgiving, killing men that had their own worries and families they left behind to fight. He didn't have a choice then, but he does now. 

Still shaking, he stands up and collects his gun from the floor, tucking it back into his waistband. The money isn't worth the guilt he feels. It needs to stop, he needs to stop for Anna's sake. Because all he can think about is how she will look at him when she finds out what he's done. She's going to hate him.

 

When he comes home he falls down at the top of the stairs, his knees no longer able to carry him and he's in so much pain. 

“Daddy!” Anna yells, running towards him with open arms and she doesn't seem to notice the blood on his face or his clothes. He opens his arms for her and she trips in her haste to get to him, but he surges forwards to catch her, wrapping her safely in his arms and he sinks back, bringing Anna with him. 

“I'm sorry.” he mutters into her hair, over and over again, and then the tears come. He lets them.


End file.
